Wipe Away Those Tears
by Kraken1
Summary: Hermione's history is almost always overlooked in fanfiction. What was she like before she was a friend of Ron and Harry? What went through her mind as she was crying alone in the girl's bathroom? (moderately slashy. Complete)
1. Wipe Away Those Tears

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. It belongs to Bloomsbury, J.K. Rowling et al. Lyrics are snippets from: "Castles in the Sky" by Ian Van Dahl and "Innocente" by Delerium, and they also do not belong to me. I wonder if I belong to me. Hmmmm... probably not. I'm sure some corporation has put a patent on my genes somewhere. However, this fic still cannot be archived, or claimed to be someone else's work other than mine. If you want to do anything with it, e-mail me first.

  
  
  


"Wipe Away Those Tears"

  
  
  
  


"Pathetic. Stupid. Ugly. Fat. Retarded. You know what you are. Live with it"

  
* * * *   


London was rarely cold at this time of year. Not compared to some of the places that she heard about. Yes, London had mild winters because of the ocean, and the channel, which flowed from south to north, but, with global warming, scenarios had been constructed which showed the channel flowing from north to south, causing Great Britain to not warm up as much as the rest of the world would. Global warming is caused by the build-up up greenhouse gasses, mainly carbon dioxide, which is produced by cars, factories, and... and... and...

Her mind drew a blank. Quickly, she changed subjects to History.

Martin Luther nailed his ninety-five theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg in 1517, thus sparking Protestantism in Germany before he aided the nobles in the Peasant's Revolt, which caused most to go back to Catholicism. Henry the eighth originally defended Catholicism, with his defence of the... defence of the... of the...

"Idiot. Stupid, moronic idiot." She mumbled, striking her hand against her head.

She thought of nothing. Slowly, music started entering into her mind.

The Nile is the longest river in Africa. It is the second longest river in the world. The longest is the... the longest is... _the castles in the sky. Oh tell me why, do we build castles in the sky._

Shakespeare... Shakespeare... "About, my brain!" she whispered with anger.

......_Oh tell me why, oh, the castle's way up high._ The pounding bass invaded her mind and sundered her defences. Her eyes opened slowly, as though the music forced them open against her will.

Dark red light reflected off the dance floor, hair, faces, teeth, eyes, smiles, all into her eyes from the spotlight up above. The spotlight, shining down upon all the dancers. Merciful spotlight, saving her this black corner. She closed her eyes, and tried swaying to the music, letting fill her consciousness, spread to the deepest corners of her cavernous being. _You can't see my eyes; they don't see yours. Hear me when I say, they don't mind at all. _

She nearly slipped out of her chair. "Clumsy, stupid, incompetent, idiotic, gawky, bungling fool. God, you really can't do anything right, can you?"

  
* * * *   


"You could use your intellect. But you don't even have one, do you? You study, memorize, and remember. That's not intelligence. You read the book fifty times. That's stupidity. Other people pass without studying at all. You spend your entire summer reading the books for next year so that no one will find out that really, under everything, you're nothing but an idiot. But you know the truth. You can't hide it from yourself. Without those three months of obsessive reading, going through every single line in the book until you know it by heart, you'd be at the bottom of the class. You'd be the laughing stock of the school. The thing is, you can hide it from your teachers, from the other students, and from your parents, but you can't hide it from yourself. You know the truth."

  
* * * *   


She wished this was like television. If only this was like television.

If it was like television, there would be all the girls on one side, and all the boys on the other. Isn't that how these dances are supposed to go? "All the girls on..." she shook her head. No, there was no use fantasizing about that now. The dancers were mingling. She'd have to accept it. Some of the boys came up to the girls, and asked them to dance, and then he would take her hands in his, and they would move together to the music. Even the ones who weren't dancing had their own little circle of friends, talking and laughing. But then some of the dancers... some of them... they...

She saw the way boys kissed girls, their tongues probing aggressively into the girl's mouth, as though she were a secret to be discovered. As though she was his to discover. No, if she were able to kiss a girl, it would be soft, gentle, with lips against each other, moving mutually. And, if there were to be tongue, it would be velvet on the lips, brushing the other girl's tongue softly as each slowly pleasured the other. If she was able to kiss a girl...

She sat in her dark corner, and watched.

  
* * * *   


"I wonder sometimes, you know. Whether you have a single original thought in your mind. Whether your mind is just one big melting pot of other people's ideas, thoughts, logic, and words, or whether there's something deep down called Hermione that really is you. Then I realize that anything that is you would be worthless anyway, so there's no point wondering."

  
* * * *   


She looked at her face in the mirror. "fat, ugly, slimy, greasy, disgusting..."

Her hands came up to her face, tracing the lines of black dots that cris-crossed her face, alternating black and white. She brought her two index fingers up two her nose, both nails touching the skin a short distance apart, and pinched, white puss oozing out like sewage. She moved her fingers, and pinched again, wiping away the waste with her fingers. Across her nose, her fingers worked, then down from her nose to her cheek, white puss oozing out as though it could carry everything disgusting inside of her away. Carry everything inside of her away, leaving a shell that might be worth something.

Her fingers moved to her other cheek, and kept pinching.

  
* * * *   


"Now look at you, crying in a bathroom stall. Why? Because someone said the truth about you. What did you expect from him? Did you expect him to suddenly say 'wow! You're so smart, Hermione! I wish that you could teach this class instead of the teacher! Then I would have levitated the feather on my first try! And Seamus would have made his feather fly instead of having it burst into flame! You're such an intelligent person, Hermione! Can you help me study for my potions test? I'm afraid that I wouldn't do well without your excellent help.' And then what would happen? You'd become the most popular person in the school, everyone knowing your name, looking up to you, thinking about how they wish they could be like you. And you'd have friends, people who you could spend the weekend with, who would like you for who you are, not because they were trying to use you, but because they think that you're just a great person all around. And... and... 

"Get over it, Hermione. No one's going to think that you're a great person, because you're not. You show off your 'intellect' because you know that there's nothing else that's good about you."

  
* * * *   


She wished this wasn't the same as her old high school dances. Her teachers had always told her how lucky and special she was to have skipped a couple grades to get into high school at such a young age. But she knew that she didn't belong. And so did the other students. They knew the truth about her. Hogwarts was the same, but worse. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet... every colour of light filled the hall, dark, but penetrating to every corner of the room. Her corner of the room. Her corner where she could see Cho's body. Soft, yet strong. That sweet, smooth, gentle skin, tenderly covering her strength from numerous quidditch practices. Not like a man. Men, they just become hard, like a rock. Unyielding, unbending, to be either eternally there, or to be broken by one strong blow. A woman isn't like that. Women, they bend, stretch, but never break, their strength protected by their soft shield that never fails.

Cedric pushed his body against Cho's, putting his hand on the small of her back, feeling her against him. Cho put her head on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. They turned slowly, as though time stretched out for them to enjoy this moment. Then, with great deliberation, time stretching out further, Cedric's head moved towards Cho's, and his lips touched hers, their mouths opening, allowing Cedric's tongue access as he moved it into her mouth. "No, if I was a boy, it would be soft... mutual..." "Even if you were a boy, Cho wouldn't want you. It's a matter of life. Time to accept it."

Hermione looked away. Someone might have seen her staring. She wasn't in a dark corner anymore. Her old world was imperfect, with dark corners: there was a place for someone like her. This world was perfect, with light everywhere: there was no place for someone like her.

Hermione walked out the door quickly. She'd been here long enough. Long enough to know that she didn't belong.

  
* * * *   


"Wipe away those tears, Hermione. That's it. Open that stall door, and walk out of here. Stay away from the dining hall: that's where everyone is. Your life's worthless anyway. Who'll be at your funeral? Maybe a couple of teachers, your parents, and a priest. The people who don't know you. The people who've come closest to knowing you are all those students who think you're a stuck up elitist. Well, I know you. And I know that there's nothing in you worth coming to a funeral for anyway. 

"So wipe away those tears, Hermione. That's it. Open that stall door, and walk out of here. Stay away from the dining hall: that's where everyone is. You can head up to your room--you're the only one pathetic enough to spend time in the room before sunset--and cast a silencing charm so no one can hear you, and you'll be alone for a couple hours. 

"So wipe away those tears, Hermione. That's it. Open that stall door, and walk out of here. Stay away from the dining hall: that's where everyone is. Most people are able to cope with what they were given in life, and become happy. But look at you! Pathetic, sniveling, useless, ugly, wretched, stupid, pitiful, fat, moronic: worthless.

"Wipe away those tears, Hermione. That's it. Open that stall door, and walk out of here. Stay away from the dining hall: that's where everyone is. It's called eugenics, Hermione. It's time to purify the gene pool."


	2. Author's note

Author's note:  
  
After reading a couple of reviews (thank you! ^_^), I realized that I did not make to context of this short story absolutely clear.  
  
In this short story, Herminone makes reference to someone who failed to levitate that feather in the class, and then made a comment about you. That person is Ron, ("Wingdarium Leviosa"). And Herminone goes to the bathroom to cry. This is what is going through her mind at the time.  
  
My short story ends when Herminone decides to kill herself, and that's where I leave off. However, the actual cannon picks up there, because, as she leaves the stall, she comes face to face with the Ogre, and then Harry and Ron save her life, thus giving her life meaning.  
  
So, in summary, Herminone decides to kill herself, but is stopped by Ron and Harry when they save her life. My short story only covers the period in which she was in the stall, and attempts to portray how her past has shaped her psyche.  
  
Thank you very much for those reviews, though. :D It's always nice to know that someone liked my work. ^_^  
  
Have a good day! 


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